


Sticklebacks, Where Is That Boy?

by Lbilover



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: The real reason Frodo was sitting under that tree at the beginning of FOTR. :-)





	Sticklebacks, Where Is That Boy?

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/FrodoxSam%20art/?action=view&current=sticklebackswhereisthatboy.png)

 

'Sticklebacks! Where is that boy?'

~*~

Sam was late. This was more usual than not, and thus Frodo always came to their meeting place supplied with a book to while away the time until Sam arrived. The book served a dual purpose, as it also allayed any suspicions Bilbo might harbour about what Frodo was getting up to on his outdoor excursions.

'It's so much pleasanter to sit under a tree and read, Uncle,' Frodo told him solemnly, and sopped his conscience with the thought that it wasn't a total lie. It _was_ pleasant to sit under a tree and read. It was much pleasanter under the tree after Samwise arrived and the reading stopped, but that was none of Bilbo's affair.

He chewed on a blade of grass and jiggled his left foot and tried to focus on the page he was reading, but the more time passed, the more he feared that Sam wouldn't be able to get away, and when they'd made such promises to each other at their last meeting, too. Delicious promises of the new and exciting things they'd do to each other. Frodo had had to stroke himself to completion that morning in the bath, so aroused was he at the prospect of what the afternoon would bring. He hadn't feared wasting his seed in the fragrant lavender-scented water; he knew from past experience that he'd have more and to spare when the time came. 

'Frodo.'

'Sam!' Frodo quickly sat up straight. His mouth went dry and his heart slammed in his chest at the sight before him. Sam was breathing rather hard as though he'd been running. His face was perspiring and his chestnut curls were plastered to his brow and the ruddiness of his rounded cheeks made his green eyes glow like priceless Dwarf-gems. 

He'd come straight from the garden rather than waste precious time with washing and changing; there was a smudge of brown dirt on his chin, the knees of his breeches were soiled and sweat-dark patches stained his shirt under his arms and on his chest where the coarse fabric clung.

Frodo didn't mind a bit. He loved when Sam was all sweaty and musky and rough-and-tumble. It roused a ravenous hunger inside him, like one who had been deprived of second breakfast, elevenses, lunch _and_ tea. It wasn't his stomach that craved satisfaction, however, but places lower down, dark, deep, intimate places that he was just beginning to appreciate and explore.

'Sorry I'm late,' Sam said breathlessly and apologetically. 'My gaffer was a right old bugger today, Frodo. Couldn't do aught to please him, no ways. Had to repot them geraniums three times afore he was satisfied.' 

He pulled at his left brace until it fell from his shoulder. They never had much time, and their couplings were perforce rushed. Not that they could have restrained themselves long if they'd had all day. Tweenage love and lust were mighty powerful aphrodisiacs and sorely tested their limited self-control.

''Salright,' replied Frodo, and cast away the grass-blade. He held up the book. 'I've been reading.'

'Anything good?' The right brace fell. Sam's nimble, if grimy, fingers went to his plain wooden shirt buttons, unfastening them to expose an expanse of gleaming sun-browned skin lightly furred with copper-gold.

'I have no idea,' Frodo said with disarming frankness. 'I can't think straight with you undressing.'

Sam grinned and shrugged out of his shirt, letting it drop to the grass. 'I like it when you can't think straight.'

'Then you've much to like.' Frodo's eyes travelled down Sam's sturdy naked body, dwelling appreciatively on the swell of his work hardened chest muscles and the delicious round hobbit-belly, and lingering at the low-riding waistband of his breeches where an intriguing trail of downy dark-brown hair disappeared. But he knew what that trail led to, and the evidence of it was already starting to tent out the front of Sam's breeches. 

'Had to sneak off to the privy afore breakfast and take care of matters,' Sam said, seeing where Frodo's gaze was focussed. 'Else I'd have been in this state all day, like, and my old dad would have had a thing or two to say, I reckon.'

'Same here, Sam, only I did it in the bath.' He looked up, straight into Sam's eyes. 'I was imagining doing the things to you that we talked about last time.'

Frodo had learned that the colour of Sam's eyes changed with arousal, and even as he spoke, the bright gold-flecked green deepened to moss and his pupils dilated. Sam reached for the two larger wood buttons that held the placket of his breeches in place.

'No, let me.' Frodo rose to his knees awkwardly, for his own erection was coming along quite splendidly; though his shaft was neither so thick nor so long as Sam's, Sam didn't seem to mind. Quite the contrary. 'Come here,' he demanded, and tossed the book away with a callous disregard that would have called Bilbo's recriminations down on his head, could have seen it... and it was very well that he could not, Frodo thought with a touch of guilt. He might faint on the spot, and not from the sight of the book lying higgledy-piggledy in the grass.

Wordlessly Sam obliged, standing with feet firmly planted in the thick turf. He was directly in front of Frodo so that his cock was at mouth level - precisely where Frodo wanted it. He wasted no time in unfastening the buttons. The coarse stuff fell away and beneath, oft-washed linen smallclothes so worn that they were nearly transparent, barely veiled Sam's now-impressive arousal. 

Frodo could clearly see the rich ruby flush of colour and the pulsing purple vein running from root to just beneath the flared crown. A noticeable damp spot marked where the slit in the crown was already leaking fluid. Sam was so responsive, Frodo thought, so needy, so anxious, like himself, to take this next step along the path of discovery that had thus far yielded such sweet delights...

He made a tiny strangled sound. With thumb and forefinger, he pulled the dampened fabric free, bunched it and then sucked it into his mouth. It tasted of musk, and something darker and more dangerous and infinitely alluring: the forbidden. 

Two male hobbits had no business pleasuring each other, much less falling in love. So Frodo had overheard his relations at Brandy Hall say when rumour reported such a thing occurring with a pair of Took cousins. But he'd been fascinated and undeniably curious, and in the solitude of his room tried to imagine how it would feel to kiss and caress another like him, and the results of his imaginings were spectacular, to say the least. He'd always suspected he was different. This had only confirmed it. 

He'd never dared breathe a word of his longings to anyone, not even to Bilbo, until the day that he and Sam, terrified and desperate and unsure, confessed their feelings to each other. Neither had had more than the vaguest notion of what making love entailed, though they'd learned soon enough that kisses, however sloppy and inexperienced, and aching groins rubbed frantically together were intensely pleasurable. 

But Sam told Frodo that it was different for lads of the working class. A bit of fooling around to let off steam was accepted, especially as it kept any unwanted babes from being conceived and hurried weddings happening before the bride's belly was swollen with child. There were hobbits he could ask for advice, and he did. What he brought back from his conversations, no matter how startling and unexpected, on some level also made perfect sense, as if Frodo had always possessed the knowledge, but it had been hidden too deep to recall.

Frodo stopped sucking the cloth and released it. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Sam's underdrawers and drew them down along with his breeches, not without some difficulty as Sam's erection got in the way. But at last they were down by his shapely ankles, and Sam stepped out of them and Frodo tossed them to one side. Sam was now magnificently, unabashedly nude, and Frodo sat back on his heels for a moment to admire him. 

But time was wasting, every ticking moment precious as mithril and diamonds.

'Spread your legs, Sam,' Frodo said, his voice shaking slightly. Sam had told him that it was possible to take an entire root into one's mouth and all the way down one's throat - that it supposedly gave the most exquisite pleasure and that one could drink down the seed and enjoy it. He could believe it - he felt a flutter of excitement low in his belly at the thought of drinking Sam's seed - but how would he ever take Sam in? He was so large. Surely he'd choke...

'Frodo?' 

Frodo supposed his face must have been giving away his thoughts. 'It's just the logistics, Sam.'

Sam smiled sympathetically at him. 'Takes a fair amount of practice to get it all the way in, that's what I was told. You don't have to be an expert right off the bat. Just sucking on the head is supposed to be champion.' 

Frodo nodded, but he'd never been patient. He wanted to give Sam everything _now_. 

'Spread your legs,' he said again, and Sam did, and Frodo slid his hand between them, finding Sam's sac and cradling it in his palm. Oh, how he loved its weight, loved the contradictory cool-hot feel of it and the light furring like peach fuzz. Sam moaned deep and low as Frodo fondled it; with the other hand Frodo took hold of Sam's shaft, angling it down. Then he opened his mouth as wide as he could, until his cheeks ached, and took the crown into his mouth. It filled it to perfection, as if it had always been meant to be there. 

Frodo did nothing for a moment, simply relished the feel and the taste of the hot fluid that dripped onto his tongue. Unable to speak, he hummed his pleasure, and Sam started and moaned Frodo's name. So Frodo hummed again, delighted by Sam's response, and then tickled the sensitive spot under the crown of his shaft with the tip of his tongue, which resulted in more moans and more fluid leaking into Frodo's mouth. He managed to swallow it, at the same time drawing Sam a little further in. Emboldened by his success, he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard as he squeezed and rolled Sam's sac in his fingers.

Sam let out a cry sharp as a spear's tip and his hips bucked so hard that he jerked right out of Frodo's mouth.

'S-Sorry,' he apologised. 'But oh Frodo that... that was... oh...'

Frodo giggled. 'No apology necessary. C'mere.' 

He soon realised that Sam was right; it would take more practice to be able to take him all the way in, to learn the trick of relaxing his throat. He could take Sam in just so far and no further this first time. But that was all right, more than all right, because the intensity of Sam's reaction to what he _was_ able to do was ample reward. Sam's entire body quaked with shudders and his helpless moans filled the air and his sturdy legs trembled as though he had scarce strength enough to stand. His fingers came to rest in Frodo's hair, twining in the curls almost painfully, and though Frodo's cheek muscles soon began to quiver from the unaccustomed stretch and strain, he suckled with determination until he heard Sam say in an almost unrecognisable voice, 'Frodo, I'm that near...'

His hips began to jerk spasmodically, but Frodo had his hands tight now around the back of Sam's hair-roughened thighs, so that he stayed in place. Seconds later, with an incoherent shout, Sam went rigid and then a gush of creamy fluid flooded Frodo's mouth, and he swallowed it down greedily, not minding the bitter taste, for this, too, it seemed to him, he had always known and loved, and it was a part of Sam and now a part of him.

He didn't release Sam's shaft until it was fully spent and softening. Then with reluctance, he set him free. Gasping a little, Frodo rested forehead against Sam's stomach. Sam's fingers in his hair loosened, but they did not leave; instead they tenderly massaged his scalp in mute apology for their roughness. 

Sam said with concern, 'Are you all right?'

Frodo lifted his head, a quick smile coming to his quivering lips. 'I'm champion, as you'd say. Oh Sam... that was utterly, utterly brilliant.'

'Ain't it for me to say that, being the one on the receiving end?'

'You liked it then?'

'Saying I _liked_ it is like saying your eyes are just plain blue,' Sam said. 'It was,' he searched for words, 'oh Frodo, it felt like I was flying. I reckon I know how an eagle feels when it's soaring above the clouds. I can't wait to do it to you, so you can see what I mean.'

'I'm afraid it will have to wait until next time,' Frodo said, sitting back. He gestured ruefully at his now-vanished erection. 'In all the excitement, I spilled, too.' He grimaced, for the soiled underlinens already felt sticky and uncomfortable.

'Oh Frodo.' Sam sounded dismayed. 'I ought to have let you go first. I'm that selfish.'

'Nonsense.' Frodo slid his arms round Sam's waist and hugged him. 'There will be plenty of other times, Sam. More than we can number. I'm determined on it.'

Sam knelt and returned his embrace. They held each other tightly for long moments then Frodo said, 'You didn't ask me.'

'Ask you what?'

'How it tastes.'

'I didn't have to. I've only ever seen such a look on your face when you was eating mushrooms. All blissful like and greedy, too.'

Frodo grinned against Sam's neck. 'Ah, but you taste even better than mushrooms, my Sam,' he said. 'But will I taste better than fried fish and chips, that's what I want to find out.'

~end~


End file.
